it was still pitch black when she slid out from under the princess and pea
sized stack of her mother's quilts
her feet slapped the chilly
of her grandmother's screened sleeping porch
as she scurried into the main house
made her way into the kitchen
snatched several day old biscuits
stashed them in the pockets of her flowered flannel robe
silently, assuredly she swept a mason jar from the pantry shelf
carefully crept to the icebox
poured herself a fridgid, frothy jar of cow juice
out the side door into the crisp predawn air
of the country morning
on winged feet
made her way to her favorite meadow
plopped unpretenciously under the
welcoming branches of grandfather oak
snuggled into the ruff bark of his trunk
a bite of biscuit
a sip of cold cow juice
what better way to begin a day
the bird's songs?
patiently she waited
the sun began to rise
the field flowers turned their faces toward the light
as her feathered friends songs began
smiling, self satisfied she said outloud, to no one in particular,
it is good to greet the day
it is better to catch the first worm
napowrimo day 7, fooling around with poetic narrative, something i don’t feel very comfortable with
form a storyline
I hesitate to trace.
The sordid tales
binding or freeing
the choice is mine.
Silk and cotton
my patterns reveal.
Sad days are bound
by crooked seams
playing hide and seek
where seekers always find
my peekaboo batting.
Happy days are simple.
hold satin warmth
bathed in beautiful..
imperfect but true.
I nestle in beneath
the crazy quilt work of a life
patterned after winding paths
and sleeping giants.
I'm not a fan of spatulas, not when the pancakes burn and their gilt edges look pretentious. Perhaps ostentatious is a better word when mahogany is used in the kitchen. I feel a lot of guilt, mostly over silly things I can't change, so sew me a quilt of pockets in which to store my regrets.
I won't say I got especially drunk, but a few nights later there was a skunk, and I'm thinking that if you had stopped to ask his name, he would have introduced himself as Alfred. However, all this talk of individuality has got me thinking of the polyester comforter in beige she sewed and how there was once that mix-up with my former Sunday school teacher and a national holiday that didn't exist. Does a bigger beard make a man a better prophet?
When a person stops to contemplate a grass blade, the whole world opens up in wonder. What good does greenery do? I'm telling you, it's not so much the greenery and more the change of scenery that's what makes a person whole. Thankfulness won't come in pieces, and God's grace is one of those intricate jigsaw puzzles spread out on a table in your heart as it gets glued with love and matted and framed with goodness.
It's not that I'm in love with my billing office, it's just that I'm thinking of someone else when I put the stamp on. And I've tried to keep my thoughts quiet, but forget wearing my heart on my sleeve, I'm a bank window with paper cutout promises. But if you ever think of me, I'm thinking you might have a deficit on your account.
Just because there's no way I left the oven on when I left the house doesn't mean I don't have the right to check.
Copyright 7/19/15 by B. E. McComb
Robin hums as she tends her garden
while birds perch all around
waiting for rustling seeds
to fill the slender columns.
Humming birds hover
to sip sweet nectar mixed for them alone.
On concert nights her voice takes flight.
and fills the hall with her radiant soul.
On quiet mornings
graphite joins with paper
and a flower's form and meaning
are captured by her vision.
A friend fallen ill or reeling from loss
receives her gift of comfort words
and a card or meal soon follows.
Grandchildren rush to greet her
and happily fill her arms.
at night they cloak themselves
In love quilts sewn by Grandma’s hands.
If you want to learn how love abides
or long to know its fullness
follow my Robin for a day
Her gift is in the gifting.
Robin is my best friend and partner and oh yes, we've been married for 26 years.
2 am coffee rings on my bedside table
procrastination at the expense of a letter grade
Nana's hand-stitched quilt has never felt so soft
But her funeral hit me hard
That quilt draped over her coffin
matched the color scheme
of the one she made for a little girl
who love butterflies and spring time
I remember pool side juice boxes
stuffed animals from a pretty lady
she was nice to me
her mom was mean to her
she cried at the funeral
Nana was a better mother to her than
her own ever dared to be
her sister found cigarettes
shes so thin now
I remember her lipstick
its always been red
it looks so red on her skin
the color of the ash
that falls from her stick
matching the skin of Papa
He sang at her funeral
He cried the whole time
but I cant cry
Jade Green words
she read them
spotty reading with bad rehearsal
but I remember
her and I and him and my brother
its all her
I wish I had known her well enough
to miss her
My Nana's funeral was today. Her quilt is still in my room. She made us a few. It means a lot more now that im out of chances to thank her for it.
— The End —